draqon said:
They invoke me to say that mspaint is not an optimal tool for expressing yourself.
SCI FORUM GALLERY - Talent drop-in
- Thread starter Theoryofrelativity
- Start date
They invoke me to say that mspaint is not an optimal tool for expressing yourself.
Some people are regulars everywhere they go. Jim stops in at Ed's diner every morning on the way to work.
"Good morning, Rosie."
"Hiya, Jim. The usual?"
"Yeah. But don't-"
"Don't break the yolks. I know. Don't you ever get tired of saying that?"
"I'll get tired of saying it when Ed gets tired of breaking my yolks." He says it loud enough for Ed to hear it through his greasy little order window. Ed looks and waves his knife at Jim in a playful fashion. A quiet, polite laughter interspersed with snickers lazily wanders through the ten or twelve people there. It's the same ten or twelve people who were there the day before.
At nine o'clock Jim wanders out of his office and down the stairs to the roach coach parked outside for his morning coffee and cigarette.
"Hey Frank." Jim always uses people's first names. People are compelled to learn and use your first name in exchange in compliance with one of those archaic unwritten social rules. It makes Jim feel connected. It makes him feel accepted. He knows he'll be missed when he's not there. Jim is a part of something larger than himself, if people know his name.
"Hello, Jim. How's it doing this morning?" Everyone say's 'How's it going', Frank wants to stand out a bit.
"Eh. Can't complain. Well, I CAN, but I'll spare you." More polite laughter ensues.
I never could understand what people got out of receiving polite laughter. They do it themselves, so they must know it is insincere. I guess it's the same thing they get out of small talk.
"Light and sweet. Right?"
"You got it."
At lunchtime Jim heads over to the deli on the corner.
"Hey Jim. Is it gonna be ham and Swiss or pastrami today?"
"How's the pastrami look?" The man behind the counter, Vinny, shows him.
"Looks great, Vinny. I'll take it! Extra mustard, as usual."
Each night before Jim goes home he stops off at the bar -the same bar- and takes the same seat at the end. The drink arrives at the end of the bar before he does. "Jim!"
"Where's Valerie today, Paul?"
"Her daughter has a fever again."
"That's a shame. I hope it's nothing serious."
The cashier at the supermarket, his regular gas station attendant, the pharmacist... Everywhere Jim goes people call him by his first name.
Everywhere but home.
Jim smiles all day long at everyone that recognizes him. He smiles at everyone who knows his name. He smiles even when no one is around. He's just an all-around happy guy. He smiles right up until he crosses the threshold of his empty house.
People will miss Jim if he goes.
He settles down on the cold couch in front of the television.
He is well liked and respected.
He turns on his usual Wednesday night TV show. It's a mindless sitcom about a man who hates his wife and children and wishes he were single again. There's no one at home to fight with Jim about what to watch on TV.
But people will miss him.
He turns off the TV and grabs the newspaper. There is no one to ask for an eight-letter word for 'People run from bulls'.
But people will miss him.
No one calls Jim from the bedroom lustfully when he stays up too late with his model clipper ship. No one will miss Jim if he never comes home again, but plenty of people will miss Jim if he goes away.
The only way to keep going out, is to keep coming home.
"Good morning, Rosie."
"Hiya, Jim. The usual?"
"Yeah. But don't-"
"Don't break the yolks. I know. Don't you ever get tired of saying that?"
"I'll get tired of saying it when Ed gets tired of breaking my yolks." He says it loud enough for Ed to hear it through his greasy little order window. Ed looks and waves his knife at Jim in a playful fashion. A quiet, polite laughter interspersed with snickers lazily wanders through the ten or twelve people there. It's the same ten or twelve people who were there the day before.
At nine o'clock Jim wanders out of his office and down the stairs to the roach coach parked outside for his morning coffee and cigarette.
"Hey Frank." Jim always uses people's first names. People are compelled to learn and use your first name in exchange in compliance with one of those archaic unwritten social rules. It makes Jim feel connected. It makes him feel accepted. He knows he'll be missed when he's not there. Jim is a part of something larger than himself, if people know his name.
"Hello, Jim. How's it doing this morning?" Everyone say's 'How's it going', Frank wants to stand out a bit.
"Eh. Can't complain. Well, I CAN, but I'll spare you." More polite laughter ensues.
I never could understand what people got out of receiving polite laughter. They do it themselves, so they must know it is insincere. I guess it's the same thing they get out of small talk.
"Light and sweet. Right?"
"You got it."
At lunchtime Jim heads over to the deli on the corner.
"Hey Jim. Is it gonna be ham and Swiss or pastrami today?"
"How's the pastrami look?" The man behind the counter, Vinny, shows him.
"Looks great, Vinny. I'll take it! Extra mustard, as usual."
Each night before Jim goes home he stops off at the bar -the same bar- and takes the same seat at the end. The drink arrives at the end of the bar before he does. "Jim!"
"Where's Valerie today, Paul?"
"Her daughter has a fever again."
"That's a shame. I hope it's nothing serious."
The cashier at the supermarket, his regular gas station attendant, the pharmacist... Everywhere Jim goes people call him by his first name.
Everywhere but home.
Jim smiles all day long at everyone that recognizes him. He smiles at everyone who knows his name. He smiles even when no one is around. He's just an all-around happy guy. He smiles right up until he crosses the threshold of his empty house.
People will miss Jim if he goes.
He settles down on the cold couch in front of the television.
He is well liked and respected.
He turns on his usual Wednesday night TV show. It's a mindless sitcom about a man who hates his wife and children and wishes he were single again. There's no one at home to fight with Jim about what to watch on TV.
But people will miss him.
He turns off the TV and grabs the newspaper. There is no one to ask for an eight-letter word for 'People run from bulls'.
But people will miss him.
No one calls Jim from the bedroom lustfully when he stays up too late with his model clipper ship. No one will miss Jim if he never comes home again, but plenty of people will miss Jim if he goes away.
The only way to keep going out, is to keep coming home.
Once, I had grand ideas of what I would do in the world. I knew that it didn't matter what job I had -all that mattered was that I would make a difference in people's lives.
Once, I held the optimism of youth tenderly, understanding that if it weren't handled properly it would not survive. I knew that people who discounted those who believed they could make a difference as dreamers simply forgot how to dream.
Once, I understood that the dreamers were the ones with their eyes open. I knew that those who only saw the world as it was had closed their eyes to other possibilities.
Once, I knew that I was not the only one who understood. I knew that others used to get it, but they allowed all the other tired people to wear them down and now they too were tired.
Once, I knew that people didn't want to open their eyes because there was so just much work to be done. I knew that they were just afraid that they weren't up to the task.
Once, I had faith that if I could just remind the tired people that what they once believed in was worth fighting for, they would get their second wind. I knew their eyes were not sewn shut, just held tightly shut by their own free will. I knew that what will had once closed, will could once again open.
Once, I was a dreamer.
I knew that wouldn't last.
Once, I held the optimism of youth tenderly, understanding that if it weren't handled properly it would not survive. I knew that people who discounted those who believed they could make a difference as dreamers simply forgot how to dream.
Once, I understood that the dreamers were the ones with their eyes open. I knew that those who only saw the world as it was had closed their eyes to other possibilities.
Once, I knew that I was not the only one who understood. I knew that others used to get it, but they allowed all the other tired people to wear them down and now they too were tired.
Once, I knew that people didn't want to open their eyes because there was so just much work to be done. I knew that they were just afraid that they weren't up to the task.
Once, I had faith that if I could just remind the tired people that what they once believed in was worth fighting for, they would get their second wind. I knew their eyes were not sewn shut, just held tightly shut by their own free will. I knew that what will had once closed, will could once again open.
Once, I was a dreamer.
I knew that wouldn't last.
